Four Nights
by scamwow
Summary: It wouldn't have been so bad if he played the damned thing for one night, but for four? Something had to give. Sherlock/John, Rated M for the possibility of lemons later in the story.
1. Chapter 1

Honestly, this story could fail miserably or turn out simply amazing. Please realize I wrote the last half of this at 2:00 am, so I apologize if something doesn't make sense. I'll try later, I really will.

Based off of an old idea I gave a friend of mine a while back- she wasn't doing so well on writing it and got stuck, so I decided to take things into my own hands.

Disclaimer: **Not mine.**

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It honestly wouldn't be all that bad if it was just every once and a while.

But four nights- four _goddamned_ nights were spent on that goddamned violin. Plucking, strumming, dragging the bow across the tightened strings just to deliberately make as much noise as possible. It certainly was unbearable. John had tried to confront Sherlock about this the second night, but he was inconsolable when he was in his "zone". The doctor had returned to his bedroom and gritted his teeth as the tall detective poised once more to wreak havoc across the strings of his infernal instrument.

And so that fourth goddamned night he decided enough was enough. He could not sleep, and if he could not sleep he could not wake up at a decent time, resulting in loss of his valuable daylight. John threw the covers aside and slid out of bed to march down the hall.

Sherlock Holmes sat with his feet in his chair, as it was his customary sitting position when in thought, purple nightshirt askew across his chest. The violin rested securely in his slender hands as he cranked out a rather eerie melody- if you went as far to define it as a melody. The terrible screeching and scratching ceased as John approached the detective, who looked up at him nonchalantly.

"John." Sherlock regarded the doctor without as much of a trace of emotion in his voice or expression. If anything this made John all the more irritated. Of course, he had to be aware that he had been keeping John up for over half a week, but it was as if he didn't even _care_- which, John thought frostily, of course he didn't. Sherlock came before the rest of the world.

"It's nearly three." John said, regarding the clock in the corner of the room with a jerk of the head. "Either put that fucking thing away or go to bed."

Sherlock raised a brow at John's language, lip twitching in either amusement or irritation- either option branching off of that just pissed John off all the more. "Touchy, aren't we?" The brunette tucked his violin under his arm, touching his fingertips together as he leaned forward to look him in the eye. "I'm thinking, John. It's what I do. I warned you before you moved in that I play the violin. Often."

"But you didn't exactly say you'd be playing all night for four days on end." John protested, fists clenched, head throbbing slightly. "I wouldn't mind so much if you'd stop playing this crap and actually _attempt_ to string together some sort of melody. I can't sleep for much more than ten minutes maximum before you go off on that damned violin again. Believe it or not, Sherlock, other people have agendas too, and the world doesn't revolve around you-"

"Of course it doesn't." Sherlock retorted. "It revolves around the sun. That's elementary science, John."

Next thing he knew the violin clattered to the floor, Sherlock grasping at his face with both hands. John's chest rose and fell irregularly, knuckles of his right hand smarting sharply. The damned fool had deserved it, he told himself bitterly. He needs to learn that not everything is about Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. He didn't care about John's damned sleep or anyone else's.

The detective brought his hand away from his face to observe the pool of blood settling in his cupped hand, stunned. John felt a sudden, gut-wrenching pain in his core as the realization set in on him. He had punched Sherlock. He didn't exactly want to- he was angry, but he'd not intended to actually hit him.

Fearing the situation to get worse, John left Sherlock alone in the living room, gut twisted and writhing like a snake as he returned to his room. Sleep didn't come easily, and when it did it was fitful.

Sherlock didn't make so much as a noise the rest of the night.

John was forced to awake when a particularly strong beam of light from between two shades on his window happened to shine directly into his eyes. He screwed his eyes up and burrowed his face into his pillow with a disgruntled noise.

It took him about two more minutes before he realized he wasn't the only person in the room.

A pair of gray eyes watched him lazily from across the room. But it wasn't just him, either. There was a huge gift basket resting on the floor beside his chair. Not just a gift basket- a gift basket with the whole shebang. Flowers and goodies were literally pouring out of its wicker containment.

"…Sherlock." John stared at the offending object with contempt. "What the _hell_ is that thing?"

"Oh, this?" Sherlock looked at the basket with disinterest. "A gift."

He had a right to be leery. He really did. Not only was Sherlock being unusually friendly, but he didn't even seem to hold a grudge against John for what had happened the night before. In fact, his nose seemed perfectly fine. A beam of sunlight cut sharply across Sherlock's face, accenting the more angular regions of his face.

John pushed the covers back to get up and retrieve the basket, gingerly padding across the cold floor, feet protesting the cold surface of the dusty hardwood floor. He hooked the basket on his arm and returned to the bed to sit. He couldn't help but raise a brow at the contents of the gift basket. It was undeniably…feminine.

A giant bear plush sat precariously on top of what seemed a mountain of brightly-colored candy wrappers. The thought was undeniably touching, he had to admit, but really it was rather embarrassing. He was about to inform Sherlock that really, as a doctor, he shouldn't be eating quite that many sweets and that he might as well take them back when he saw the mug.

It rested at the bottom of the basket, and when he could clearly make out "#1 Doctor" printed across the side of the white porcelain.

Well, damn. His face started to heat up at that, and he hadn't a real clue why. It wasn't even a big thing- maybe it was the compliment itself that made him get all woozy. Sherlock didn't exactly hand those sorts of things out, and most especially not gift baskets. "Hello you wish to hire me as your very own consulting detective? Here, have a complementary gift basket- made especially for you! Now, let us skip and be merry as you fill me in with the details of your case!" While the thought was certainly amusing it just didn't ever happen.

Sherlock watched John expectantly from across the room, leaned so far forward on his knees it almost seemed he might fall out of the chair. John looked up from the gift basket with a bashful smile, setting the mug in his lap. "Thanks, Sherlock. But really, I don't deserve all of this."

Sherlock's expression didn't change as he stood. "I think you deserve more than that."

John didn't really register what was going on until he was trapped against the bed, head spinning and grasping at Sherlock's sleeve. He couldn't really think rationally with those thin lips pressed against his, slim body flush with his own. The doctor gasped aloud as teeth nipped as his neck, his ear, his collarbone. He grasped at the curly locks above him, tugging ever-so-slightly as warm hands snaked up under his loose pajama shirt. He didn't even think to protest as Sherlock continued to touch him. It felt so right- It was glorious, it was wonderful, it was-

Everything came crashing down around him at 6:30.

The alarm continued to go off as John lay there, chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. Of course. It was all a dream. Sherlock wasn't gay. He wasn't gay. Sherlock was still suffering from a potential broken nose and nothing was alright. His arm flung out blindly to hit snooze, getting up to shuffle to the bathroom across the hallway.

John ruled the dream out as a simple case of a guilty conscience and tried his best to forget it as he headed downstairs to face the consequences of his actions. It was easier said than done.

One does not simply fantasize about his flatmate and "forget" about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for the reviews and favorites! You guys have no idea how much it means to me. I was surprised that this got as much attention as it did.**

**Admittedly, the first chapter of this wasn't the greatest. In fact, I absolutely abhor it. However, I am far too lazy to go back and fix everything. What's done is done.**

**You can thank the massive amounts of snow my area has been getting for this. I was only two paragraphs along before this morning.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

Sherlock's nose hurt, but what did he expect? He had just gotten hit in the face. It wasn't like it was the first time, either. For some reason people didn't appreciate Sherlock's input on many things. To him they seemed like perfectly intelligent and rational comments- he thought that people would appreciate them rather than get worked up over small observations. Then there were the times he deliberately said things to make people mad- but hell. It was bloody fun sometimes.

When Sherlock had talked to John just minutes before he had said everything just to try and piss him off. Sherlock didn't particularly enjoy being interrupted in the middle of one of his "performances". It was a bad time for John to come downstairs. He was still as frustrated as ever at the case he was working on- two and two were equating to three, and even with his lack of some elementary knowledge, Sherlock knew it was supposed to be four. He was frustrated, John, was frustrated, and his nose ended up bleeding.

As John walked upstairs Sherlock got up, still bent over his hand awkwardly. He wasn't too keen on getting blood on anything. He went to the bathroom to wash up, dabbing at his nose with a wet washcloth. He looked at himself in the mirror, snorting at his own reflection. Sherlock didn't look at himself often, but when he did he could find many things certainly unattractive about himself. The mop of curly dead skin follicles on his head was unmanageable, his eyes were sunken and reddened from lack of sleep, his face was horsy and his eyes were a stony, rainy gray. Everything about him was repulsive- he didn't understand why anyone would even consider looking at him. Normally people went for the cheery, bright-eyed business men and women with radiant smiles and crumbling facades of happiness. Professional. Sophisticated. Beautiful.

The detective growled in frustration and splashed water over his face. What should he care? It was nearly St. Valentine's Day. He was just thinking about all of this rubbish because it was everywhere- commercials, people chattering on the street, at restaurants, on the calendar. It was truly a horrid holiday. "Single Awareness Day", as some people accurately dubbed it. Loneliness had never bothered him before, so why should it be bothering him now?

_Because you're running out of things to fill that space with._

Cocaine. Nicotine. The skull. The cases. The damned violin. It had all worked in the past, but it wasn't satisfying the aching sinkhole in the pit of his very existence. It wanted more than just a temporary solution- it wanted a damned complete repair job and Sherlock was at a loss about how to carry out such a task. He'd never felt feelings such as these towards another human being in his life, exempt of the very man who had punched him in the nose, but he knew that was a lost cause. John was painfully straight. He and John got along well enough when Sherlock wasn't foolish enough to make a snide comment or two, and his mind was running away with the whole idea that he just might have made a _friend._

Professional. Sophisticated. Beautiful. Sharron. No, no, her name was Serenity. Shelly? Sarah. What did it matter if he knew her name anyways? It made his blood boil in outright jealousy when he thought about that woman. She had a steady job. She knew how to dress and talk to people. She was- and it was painful for Sherlock to admit it; beautiful in John's mind.

In any case, it was best to not think about things. What concerned the consulting detective at that exact moment was how he was going to fix his little problem with the man upstairs.

_You're not good with these sorts of things. Even with as much as you do know, this is out of your league, Sherlock._

Maybe if he just waited. Something might happen. But he wasn't one to normally sit and wait for miracles.

_Just go tell him you're sorry and that it won't happen again._

But it would happen again. Sherlock had stayed on his violin constantly for two weeks straight- before his body gave out on him and he fainted, of course. He couldn't think without something to keep his brain completely stimulated.

_You're a genius. You can't find something else?_

Sherlock fell back to sit on the toilet lid with an exasperated sigh, rubbing at his eyes. He couldn't work when his mind was preoccupied with such things. It was a lost cause.

For the first time in a long time, a perplexed Sherlock emerged from the bathroom when his nose stopped up and went to bed.

When Sherlock got up some time past noon the next morning, John was downstairs flipping through channels with the remote held out a ways in front of him. John's eyes flickered up to look at Sherlock as he walked into his range of vision. It was but a bit amusing because the doctor had obviously thought Sherlock hadn't seen him looking back. The detective turned away coolly, leaning against the counter and picking up the skull, who moved from place to place depending on what kind of mood Sherlock had been in. He ran his thumb over the mandible as he tried to reorient himself.

Typically, apologizing to one's flatmate shouldn't be so hard. But when you were a achingly prideful sociopath with feelings towards said flatmate it was increasingly difficult. You were, essentially, ripped in two. His pride stated rather bluntly that it would not apologize, and that John WAS the one who had hit him for everything, meanwhile, the recently discovered loving and caring center in his brain begged that he go ask for John's forgiveness. In concurrence with each other, either side wasn't so happy with the chance of losing his best and only real friend.

But, as it turned out, Sherlock didn't have to do a damned thing.

He heard John walk into the kitchen and Sherlock didn't turn to look at him. Out of his peripheral vision he could see John had his arms crossed and looked overly tired. Sherlock wanted so badly to rub those worry lines in his forehead away with his thumbs and get John to laugh or just cheer up a little to get that gloomy expression off of his beautiful face. He set the skull down on the counter beside him and shoved his hands down his pockets to keep such an impulsive and stupid thing from taking place. It was a thing better left to the movies.

"Good morning." John started awkwardly, voice strong nonetheless. The ex-soldier didn't know how to go about apologizing either, it seemed.

Sherlock made a noise in his throat. It was such a terrible, cold thing to do, and he instantly regretted it afterwards. John stepped back, becoming less confident about himself by the second. "Oh. Well. I made some eggs this morning- they ought to be a bit cold by now but if you want some they're there."

And that was how Sherlock Holmes ruined one of the best chances he'd get to make things right with John.

As the doctor walked back to his telly to watch some ridiculously happy family play out their fake lives on the set of some television show, Sherlock was fretting over many things that a Sherlock did not do. After the show ended and some depressed, tired actor with far too many buried secrets retired to his home for the night, Sherlock was leaving the flat to go visit the morgue. He tied his scarf about his neck in his usual fashion, walking for the front steps.

"You coming? I'm headed for the morgue." Sherlock asked. It was more a plea than a simple, everyday question. He wished more than anything that they could just forget this and move on, but he knew it was going to take more than that. Before anything could go away Sherlock had to get over his massive ego- easier said than done.

"No." John offered Sherlock one of the most painful smiles he had ever seen in his life. "No, you go right ahead. I've got a headache."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes became an outright coward and turned away from everything, much like that unhappy and troubled actor playing out the false events in a falsely happy little home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry about that- I haven't felt like writing much recently. Quite frankly, I think this whole fanfic was silly. The first chapter was incredibly OOC, so it was hard to build off of. I didn't want to change it simply because people had already read it.**

**So, here you are, nearly a month after my last update, the third chapter. This is probably the longest chapter I've ever written in my life. For being such good little readers I think I'll end the fic with the next chapter- with some well-earned smut, of course.**

**Again, I apologize for the plot being rushed and for the OOC/nonsense that has occurred in this story.**

**Disclaimer: This isn't mine, obviously. I use to pretend it is.**

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John sat in front of the telly again, tea cup clutched to his chest along with his knees. He wasn't particularly flexible, but he had managed to curl up enough to get his feet in the chair. His hands shook as he stared, watching but not watching, listening but not listening, to a shampoo commercial. The lady on-screen beamed at him. He wished he could be like the people in the commercials- they didn't have much to worry about. Happy families, beautiful people, romance and sex appeal and all that jazz. Yes, it would be most appealing to exist solely inside of one of those pleasant commercials.

But John Watson was just a man; not some eternal being on the telly screen.

He willed for his hands to stop shaking. He begged. He pleaded. They wouldn't listen. He didn't expect them to. John had found out quickly in the medical business that bodies didn't go by your agenda; they had plans of their own. He had to say what bothered him the most was his hands, normally steady and precise, were shaking like some sort of beaten dog.

The tea had gone cold since Sherlock left. It had been well over an hour or so. He had a faint notion that it was just an excuse to get away from the house- away from John. He was sorry for hitting Sherlock, he truly was, but some part of him kept reminding, prodding at him. _He wouldn't stop playing that goddamned violin._ It was his own fault he got hit. A strange sort of anger flared up inside of him. Why should he apologize? He had asked nicely before. Sherlock had his warnings.

It wasn't like John to stay angry for long, though. It was against his nature. When he woke up the morning afterwards- well…he certainly wasn't angry at Sherlock anymore. John flushed at the thought, corners of his mouth playing on a borderline scowl. What the hell _had_ that been? He figured that it was some sort of guilt trip. But if being stressed out was going to make him have those sorts of dreams about _Sherlock_ (of all people!) then he probably needed to get out a little more.

And so, with little else to do, John Watson called up a few old buddies and did just that.

It was approximately one in the morning when the pub manager threw him out for being a drunken nuisance. He wasn't a nuisance. He wasn't drunk, either. He was simply expressing his ideas in a rather loud voice. How else was anyone supposed to hear him over the chatter?

John squinted at the street sign, nearly falling over when he tilted his head to the side. The world was awfully shaky tonight- must be earthquake season.

The cabbie seemed more than happy when John got out of the cab. He gave the man a clumsy bow, but the cab driver just drove off. People these days! All he was trying to do was be polite- he appreciated the ride.

He fiddled with the key to he and Sherlock's flat, only to find the door unlocked. He had forgotten to lock it again- or Sherlock was home. John frowned. That wasn't a problem. No, not at all. He'd go in there and _make_ the detective apologize. No one got away with making a fool out of John Watson.

With that thought in his mind, he turned the doorknob and fell rather gracefully over the carpet.

He didn't actually get a call from Lestrade. It was stupid to run away, that much was obvious, but what else was there to do? Sherlock was far too proud to even bend one knee to John- even with as much as he adored the doctor. It would make more sense to leave before he ruined things further. The consultant gritted his teeth against the bitter winter wind, hands stuffed in his pockets. There were things to do, people to see. It ought to be enough to get his mind off the problem for a while.

_It's not just going to go away._

Oh, how he wished he could just stop thinking and just be like everyone else for once.

He got hit by approximately three cars that day, two while in pursuit of a particular individual. He ended up getting away from Sherlock, and while throwing a magnificent tantrum in the middle of the road the consultant got hit by the third.

It only made sense that felt like crap when he arrived back at the flat. Earlier he hadn't felt any of his injuries, but with the endorphins long gone and bruises settling in the pain was inevitable. He currently sat curled up on the couch, laptop on his lap, ice packs over various parts of his slender body. It hadn't particularly surprised him to find John was gone. A small part of him pointed out that something was obviously wrong, but he ignored it.

Sherlock had just taken his phone out to shoot a typical "Where are you? –SH" at the doctor when the man himself fell through the unlocked door with a loud thump. Sherlock stared, vaguely aware that his jaw had opened in surprise. _Drunk._ His jaw snapped back up as John began to rise again, swearing needlessly at his own clumsy feet.

"Are you alright? You seem to be having a few problems over there." Sherlock tossed his phone towards the end of the couch without much of a care where it went. His nonchalant façade came into place again, though it was quite obvious he was worrying on his lip with his teeth.

"Right enough." John grumped. The doctor looked at Sherlock with bleary eyes, leaning heavily against the doorway. "'M not gonna have you tryin' to be my mum." He went to take another step, just to lose his balance and knock over a precarious pile of random objects- mainly books and sweaters. Sherlock then found it necessary to help the intoxicated Watson through the wreckage of the living space, with plenty of complaints streaming from the good doctor's mouth. It didn't bother him too much. In fact, it only continued to amuse him. John had a reputation for having a vernacular very similar of that of a sailor when aggravated.

John repeated over and over about how Sherlock needed to unhand him this and Sherlock ought to go fuck a piece of furniture that, but he did let the man help him up the stairs to his room. All talk, as it turned out. As soon as John reached his bed he was fast asleep, snoring lightly.

Sherlock sat and watched him for a bit. John got drunk before, but it was uncharacteristically so. Usually it was just enough to get a buzz. Being the doctor that he was the small man made sure to take care of himself- in this case by not killing off his liver. Something had to be wrong for this to happen. The only other time Sherlock had seen him drunk was after Sarah (Good riddance, he added on snidely) called it off because he couldn't make it to dates- this was mostly Sherlock's fault. He had deliberately made sure John couldn't make it to them on time. The doctor had sometimes been an hour late, and even later, by which case Sarah would no longer be there.

So, this made it twice John had gotten drunk whilst living at 221b. And both times it had most definitely been Sherlock's fault.

Even he began to feel a little bad about it. Sherlock just kept pressing buttons, and now his precious little doctor had ended up snapping. The intense need to apologize flared up again. He rubbed at his temple absently, teeth clenched together. It was so bothersome, becoming attached to people. A silly little argument had turned into this. It wasn't really that bad, though. John punched him in the face. Big deal. Sherlock had been hit a few- well, okay, many times before. He couldn't help being so irritatingly…_Sherlocky_. He didn't have a good word for it. He didn't have a good excuse, either.

The detective kicked one of John's stray shoes across the tidy floor, returning downstairs to perch in his chair. How Sherlock hated emotions. He claimed to be a sociopath so he would have a reason to separate himself from people- yet, here he was, at a rather pitiful war with a tiny little doctor that had come to occupy a little more than half of the space in his knowledgeable mind.

John woke up with a splitting headache, groaning and rolling over to the edge of his bed. The only thing he hated more than heavy drinking was the hangover that came after it. The doctor clutched his head as he opened his eyes, no more than slits. He didn't know what he was thinking when he agreed to go out to have a few with Bill Murray. Somehow he always convinced John to do the stupidest things. The only recollection he had of the night before was some loud, off-key karaoke and dancing on the table.

"Oh, bloody hell…" He scowled against the blaring sunlight through his window and got up, hand resting against the wall as he made his way downstairs. John was vaguely aware that Sherlock was down there, but he didn't give a flying fuck at this point. All he needed was a nice cuppa and to curl up in front of the TV all day. _Sherlock might make a good substitute for a blanket_. John flushed, angrier than he was embarrassed at himself. He was going to go find out what part of his brain was being so ridiculous and go dig it out with a scalpel.

Sherlock was on the couch, as it was his normal place to lounge. John ignored him at first, going over to brew some Oolong. The low pounding in his temple increased, and he clenched his jaw. John had pledged to not lower his pride for Sherlock's sake, but god, this was a silly fight. They were dancing around it in a rather awkward ballet when it was really just a simple little problem.

John poured himself some tea, walking into the living room to sit down in the chair in front of the telly. "Morning." He greeted Sherlock simply, sipping from the china.

Sherlock just grunted in reply. He seemed immersed in his laptop.

This gesture came off a little more than rude to the doctor. He wasn't in any sort of mood to be ignored. With that John Watson promptly stood up, strolled over to Sherlock, and shut his laptop on his fingers. This most certainly caught the detective's attention. He glared up at John with sudden intensity, closely resembling a lion in the small doctor's mind with the way his wild hair framed his pale face.

"We need to talk."

"I'm very aware of that," Sherlock huffed indignantly. "But surely it could have waited until I was done with that paragraph. It was really important. I need those bodies by the end of this week."

"It can wait." The doctor was very adamant about this, fairly impressed with the way he was handling this so far- especially for suffering through a hangover of all things. "I was a bit tired a few days ago-"

"I'd say." Sherlock murmured.

"-and I'd asked you to stop before-"

"I told you I liked to play the violin at odd times."

"Yes, but not four nights in a row!"

"But you should have expected it. It's been what, six months or so since we met? Surely you've caught on to my 'odd habits' by now."

"Shut up." John snapped. "I'm trying to apologize, for Christ's sakes, so take the goddamn apology before I change my mind. You're not going to, so I might as-"

"Quite frankly," Sherlock cut in, face completely serious. "I'm very sorry for my actions. You've been very tolerant of my irrational behavior and I appreciate it. If it had been anyone else living with me they would have been gone right now, and as you're aware, I'm sure, I'm not the best at making friends. So no, John, I will _not_ accept your apology, but I humbly ask that you accept mine."


	4. Chapter 4

**Oh god, guys, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting for so long. It's been two months since my last update, and I can't really blame it on the F-5 tornado here or my birthday, so it's pretty much pure laziness. I appreciate all your feedbacks, reviews, favorites, etc. and it really does mean a lot to me! I had to go back and skim the first three chapters to know what was going on in my own story, so it might still be a bit off. Silly me.**

**I don't like my story anymore (as I've established in author notes in before chapters) but I'll finish this one for you guys. Then I'll write you something better (and hopefully with better smut ;) )**

**Disclaimer:**

**Not mine. Not even a fabulous curly hair on Cumberbatch's fabulous curly-haired head.**

The look of surprise on John's face was absolutely priceless. In fact Sherlock swore the hit on his pride was more than worth just seeing John look so utterly dumbfounded. His eyes were wide and bright in surprise, lips parted in the rather attractive way Sherlock only saw occasionally when John was asleep. He crossed his arms, switching to staring down at the older man with a condescending glare.

"So are you leaving or not?" Sherlock huffed, "If you are I might as well find a new flat, as I couldn't afford this one without someone else. I mean really, kicking a man out on the street, John, it's a bit harsh if you ask me. Especially in this weather. You might as well kill a man. At least then you'd give me something worthwhile to do; though, no offense to your medical mind, doctor, I'm sure it would be a waste of my time. Day work."

Before he knew it John had gripped a hold of his face, holding it to make Sherlock directly at him. Still hard to believe a little man John that could be so strong. Sherlock was sure they would look ridiculous to a third party. John had reduced the towering detective to looking like a petulant child just by dragging him down to his height. Were the eggs in the fridge starting to become foul enough to dump into Anderson's locker? Oh, yes. Back to the point. John was doing wonderful things with his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. It was hard to focus on the important thing here- the eggs in the fridge, the mutated baby in a jar that was sitting next to it, figuring out John's new password, what he and John were going to eat that night, when John was going to get a new job, John's sweater, John's mouth, John, John, John.

At this point they had become tangled over the coach, shoving piles of papers and pillows to the floor in their fervor. Sherlock wasn't sure how he had wound up on top of John (well- he did know. He'd been the ones to shove them both on the couch) but oh god he wouldn't exchange that spot for anywhere else in the world. Except maybe sitting beside his rotten eggs. Oh, he couldn't wait to see Anderson's face…

"Shut up."

Sherlock was shaken out of his thoughts. "What?"

"I can hear you thinking." John growled, pulling Sherlock closer for sloppy kiss. "It's damn annoying."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that.

Sometime later John was curled back up into his chair, steaming cup of tea clutched in his steady hands. The only thing that would tip you off that he'd just been rolling around with his flatmate on the floor would be the fact that he was now sitting in the lap of said flatmate, leaning back into his thin frame. Sherlock was visibly bored, not one to sit there and watch mindless telly when there was a job to be done. But John would not hear of it, especially not just after a shag.

"Can I get up now?" Sherlock groaned as a new show started.

"No."

"But my eggs. I need to go check on them."

John made a face. "The hell? You're not a bloody chicken, Sherlock. Is that code for something?"

"The eggs. In the fridge. I have to check them."

"Oh, bloody hell, don't tell me that's what that smell was."

"But it was fun watching you smell yourself." The edge of Sherlock's mouth perked up in amusement.

"I hate you."

"Keep telling yourself that."


End file.
